


your greedy eyes upon me (and then I come undone)

by chshrkitten



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera (2004)
Genre: Exhibitionism, F/M, Female Masturbation, Masturbation, Mirrors, PWP, Songfic, aaaah I’ve never published smut before and I’m a lil bit nervous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 14:59:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16431635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chshrkitten/pseuds/chshrkitten
Summary: “In the mirror, her hair hangs in soft curls around her face, halfway fallen from the neat bun she twists it into to fit under the now-discarded wig. She stares into her own gaze, and thinks about how the lamplight makes her eyes look large and dark. Her cheeks are flushed, as are her bare shoulders. She’s wearing nothing but a corset and chemise, both white. Both virginal. The color is appropriate, she supposes, but it doesn’t feel appropriate tonight.“Christine knows that the phantom watches her from behind the mirror in her dressing room, but he doesn’t know that she knows. She’s glad of that.(The “underage” warning is YMMV, depending on how old you think 2004!Christine is)





	your greedy eyes upon me (and then I come undone)

**Author's Note:**

> “You don't know that I know / You watch me every night / And I just can't resist the urge / To stand here in the light...”

_Hannibal_ is over for the evening, but the halls of the Opera Populaire still buzz with the wild energy of performance. Christine feels that same energy, the exhilaration of the stage beating within her and quickening her heart, but unlike the rest of the cast she doesn’t have any urge to join the party that’s already growing raucous downstairs. 

No, Christine doesn’t want to be anywhere but where she is: standing in the center of the Prima Donna’s—no, _her_ —dressing room.

Christine has just finished scrubbing the stage makeup from her face with a cloth, and the smell of greasepaint lingers in the air. She runs a hand over her face, and smiles, loving the way her skin feels right after removing her makeup— bare and exposed, her raw cheeks tingling in the heat from the single lamp. The room is not badly lit, but it is not brightly lit either. When she looks in the mirror, she can see her figure cast in a warm, indistinct glow. 

All in all, Christine feels free tonight. She feels beautiful.

She also feels his eyes on her.

The phantom doesn’t know that she knows he watches her. At least, she doesn’t think he does, he’s given no indication of it in her lessons. There’s no reason he would suspect her secret satisfaction in this; as far as she can tell, he more than believes in the veracity of her reputation around the theater: _Christine Daaé, last innocent of the Opera Populaire, so virginal that she won’t even let another woman see her body, which is why she sends her dresser away after every performance and changes out of her costume alone…._

In truth, she is a virgin— but perhaps not the world’s most innocent one. The flush of excitement already spreading across her chest certainly proves that.

Removing the main section of her costume is easy, now that she has had a little practice. It’s all one stiff piece, so after a little awkward fumbling with the fasteners at the back, Christine can simply step out of the whole thing. It stands on its own for a second, trembling, before collapsing into a heap of pink and ivory silk on the floor. Its big enough to nearly carpet the room. 

Christine kicks it to the side, and leaves it carelessly flung in the corner. A little smile curls against her mouth, and anticipation hums in her throat. She’s been waiting for this moment all evening, the moment when a single large step forward leaves her framed perfectly in the center of the dressing room’s full-length mirror. Christine stares into the glass, and thinks about what Erik must be seeing right now. 

Maybe that’s what she loves about this. The staging of it all.

In the mirror, her hair hangs in soft curls around her face, halfway fallen from the neat bun she twists it into to fit under the now-discarded wig. She stares into her own gaze, and thinks about how the lamplight makes her eyes look large and dark. Her cheeks are flushed, as are her bare shoulders. She’s wearing nothing but a corset and chemise, both white. Both virginal. The color is appropriate, she supposes, but it doesn’t feel appropriate tonight. 

Still, all she’s doing is undressing, Christine reminds herself. It isn’t her fault Erik is watching, and there’s no way she could be expected to know. She’s still a good girl. 

When her fingers come up to the first fastener of her corset, they shake more from heady excitement than from nerves. Christine lets her hands move down her chest slowly, savoring the moment, and one by one, each hook snaps free from its eye.  
The garment fall unnoticed to the floor, and Christine’s eyes are still fixed on the mirror where she knows he’s standing. Watching her. 

After being pressed to her skin by the corset all evening, Christine's chemise clings to her and outlines her form exactly. She glides her hands down her own stomach, and feels body heat warm her hands through the thin fabric. She presses her palms flat against the wider curve of her waist, and smooths two thumbs over her hip bones in perfect symmetry. Heat is gathering in the pit of her stomach, and her own touch makes her shiver.

She tosses her head, and more hair falls from its pins onto her shoulders, dark curls framing her red cheeks.

Christine knows that he likes her hair. She knows that he likes her too, likes her in a way that makes something twist and purr in her chest, the same something that has her standing here like this. 

It’s a feeling that she doesn’t understand, but she can’t resist its pull. Standing here in the light, she is almost glad for everything left unspoken between her and her angel. If he knew that she understood his feelings, she could never do this.

But for now she can do this, so she pivots slightly, looking back over her shoulder with darkened eyes. There’s something strange, Christine thinks, about watching herself in a mirror, like staring at a woman she has never met. There is nothing more or less familiar to her than her own reflection, and maybe the feeling should scare her, but right now it’s thrilling. Her back arches, and she poses shamelessly for a man who she is _certain_ is watching. 

When she removes her chemise, her heart is pounding. And then Christine Daaé stands naked before the mirror.

Which is really a perfectly respectable thing to do in her own dressing room, she tells herself.

What she does next is somewhat less respectable.

Christine’s hand trails down the flat expanse of her bare stomach, short nails bringing up goosebumps as they brush against her skin. Her fingers move between her thighs, and she gasps, a reaction which is more from her own pleasure than for show. She’s already wet, so she slides her middle finger between her lips and ghosts it experimentally against her clit. The gentle touch is enough to make her tremble, and Christine decides that tonight isn’t a night for taking this part slow. 

She forces her hand away from herself, and sits down in the chair she moved closer to the mirror weeks ago. When she spreads her legs, a part of her can't believe that she’s really displaying herself to a man this way, but _oh,_ she wants to. 

As Christine’s hand reaches for her clit once again, her back arches and a sigh passes her lips involuntarily. Her eyes fall closed, but she can still feel his gaze on her. She knows he hasn’t left. 

As her pleasure starts to build, the vague thoughts of him that have sustained her excitement throughout the evening coalesce into fantasies. She imagines him crouching—no, _kneeling_ — behind the mirror. She imagines his eyes glowing hot with passion, his hands gripping his thighs tightly because he doesn’t want to give in and touch himself while looking at her. She imagines she can hear his soft breaths from behind the mirror; for a second she thinks that she does hear them….

And then the fantasy changes. They are in a bedroom somewhere, the location isn’t important, and it’s his hands touching her instead of her own. His fingers are in her, his thumb moves against her clit, it’s _his_ other hand that moves up to caress her breast in the perfect way that makes her own breath catch. 

But that isn’t the mental image that brings her all the way to the edge. It’s the thought of him behind the mirror again, the thought of him gasping in pure relief as he finally gives in and presses a hand against the front of his trousers, that makes Christine's vision go white. 

As she cums, Christine lets out a moan, finally too overcome by pleasure to remember that she has to be quiet. In the haze of disorganized thought that follows her orgasm, it occurs to her that it’s probably fine: most of the cast has likely gone home by now. It must be nearly dawn. 

She lies curled on the chair for a moment longer, savoring the warm afterglow as it suffuses her body. 

Then she stands, stretches, and turns away to get dressed again. After she pulls on her dress, coat, and boots, Christine does something she’s never done before.

She turns back to the mirror, smiles almost shyly, and says “Goodnight, angel.”

Christine rushes from the room the second she finishes speaking, but she knows that her words didn’t go unheard, and this time it isn’t because of a feeling. It’s because once she’s out in the hallway, she hears a distinct thumping noise, as though, someone in a very small room just past her dressing room is scrambling hastily to his feet.

Christine decides it’s past time she went home to bed.


End file.
